HANK - Christopher Street BBS - 201/992-5660
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He was sitting on the table nearest the john. He had been there for at least
an hour without seeing another soul and was about to leave when the old Ford
pickup, so mud-splattered that you could barely tell it was painted black,
drove into the lot in front of him and parked. He sat up and took notice
before the driver ever saw him, just from the pickup. It was definitely a
farm truck, as beat up and muddy as it was, and that plus the Stars and Bars
and gun rack in the back window really got Bruce's juices going.
The door opened, and the first thing he saw was the filthy boot swing out. The
door slammed shut and there he was, chewing on a cigar butt. He turned the
PBR can up and drained it, then threw it in the trashcan and walked past
Bruce, nodding a greeting, and into the john.
Bruce's heart was racing. He wasn't any taller than around 5'10, but he was
thick, thick and hard all over. His hair and beard were grey, as was the dense
hair that sprouted out from the neck of his thin, red-and-white checked western
shirt. What really did the fag in, though, was his torso, and he followed him
in.
His thick, heavy legs were planted wide like tree trunks in front of the old
floor-length pisser, the one that didn't drain; Bruce's heart was pounding in
his throat as he saw the thick waist and the skin-tight, sweat-
soaked shirt stretched so tight across his huge shoulders the seams looked like
they would rip out.
Bruce was hungry.
His hands were big, bigger even than Bruce's father's had been, and the
fingers, though not extremely long, were the thickest, most heavily-
calloused fingers he'd ever seen. They were the only hands that could've done
justice to the thick, hairy forearms, exposed up to the elbow by the rolled-up
sleeves. And the biceps more than filled the sleeves. He would've guessed him
to be about 220, give or take a few. As it turned out, he was 240.
The fingers were so big they fumbled even with the big NRA belt buckle. As
they undid the dirty jeans he watched the large cords of muscle ripple along
the big tattooed forearms, fascinated by the dense hair that covered them all
the way down to the backs of his huge hands, hair so sweat-soaked and smeared
with black engine grease that it was matted down against the muscle.
Hank gave no apparent notice to the slobbering dicksucker.
His jeans hung open, and his strong hands moved downwards, both huge thumbs
hooking themselves over the washed-out waistband and pushing the yellowed,
threadbare boxers down. Big balls dangled loose and heavy below his dick, one
lower than the other. Not only as long as Bruce's father's but thicker than
any dick he'd ever seen, and it was still soft. A long loose foreskin,
criss-crossed with big, ropy veins hung a full inch past the head that was even
thicker than the shaft.
A Man's dick. A dick that demanded a queer's worship, a queer grovelling on
her belly. A dick that a faggot would always have to earn.
He did not pull the skin back. His hands were on his hips. He was already
standing further away from the urinal than most men, but he situated himself,
not closer, but even further back. The loose, narrow lip of skin began to
dribble dark yellow, and then the piss picked up force and began to splatter,
hitting the dirty floor and his mud-encrusted shitkickers as well as filling
the stained enamel basin. The stinking, dark yellow piss gushed out like it
never would stop, full-force, and past filling the basin the hot yellow piss
collected in a rapidly growing pool on the filthy cement floor, spreading
around his workboots so that the caked mud was dissolving into his piss.
Manpiss. From a Man's dick. And barely as it began to slow to a heavy pour,
he put his fingers on his big dickhead, squeezed the lip shut and left.
For the first time in his life, Bruce felt every part of himself as raw hunger.
The hunger was different than the dickhunger he was so used to, a deeper hunger
that ripped his soul to shreds, a hunger that frightened him, a hunger more
powerful than any other part of his being.
Bruce knew only that he would do anything to assuage his hunger.
Hank had been raised by his Daddy and Uncle Jack on a large farm in Alabama.
He'd never heard word one about his mother, and never asked; he was bright
enough to figure out that whoever she had been, she was now a taboo topic.
Jack's boy, Jake, was Hank's age, and they'd always been inseperable, like
their Daddies.
Both Hank and Jake were teenagers before they found out that, in many ways,
they had been raised very differently from most boys. When they first heard
that most boys didn't get their asses busted once a week as a matter of
principle, they were stunned; the idea that a boy had to do something to get
his ass beat they found as bizarre as they would have an alien from Mars. The
razor strop and their Daddies' belts were as much a routine part of Hank and
Jake's lives as breakfast, lunch and supper. There was, for them, no more
essential sign of a Man's authority than the belt in his pants, and him pulling
it out and doubling it up in his fist.
Few weeks went by that the regular Sunday morning whuppings were the only time
they had blisters raised on their butts, though, especially when they got
older. Both boys matured early, and both turned out as big as their Daddies
were. Jake, especially, took after his Daddy, an identical twin had he been
older, save for one characteristic: Jake's body was covered with a thick carpet
of dark blond hair, whereas Jack had no hair on his body other than on his head
that either boy had ever seen, not even under his arms or around his dick.
After puberty, both noticed not only each other, but their Daddies.
Their Daddies had always spent almost all their time inside the farmhouse
stripped down to their boxers, and though the boys had been forbidden to run
around in their underwear before, now they were encouraged to do so. And it
seemed to both boys that their Daddies' boxers were tented out much more
frequently than they had been before.
Especially at the stroke of eight Sunday morning, when the ritual began, and
the boys would beg their Daddies to beat their asses. Then, and all through
the hour and a half whuppings, their Daddies' dicks were rock hard and dripping
into their boxers. The boys were just as hard, and Jake had his first cum on a
Sunday morning, while tied over the whipping horse down in the barn with Jack's
razor strop raising broad, purple, fiery (sp?) welts across his butt. Hank got
rockhard just thinking about the black and blue stripes on Jake's ass, and
though he also had his first cum while being whupped, it was not the fire from
his Daddy's belt but watching Jack beat Jake's butt that pushed him over the
edge.
They had known as far back as they could remember that a boy's ass belongs to
his Daddy, for him to bruise up any time he wanted to take off his belt and
felt like beating some ass, not just for him to whup once a week. The older
they got, though, especially after puberty, the more often their Daddies
decided they wanted to bust some ass. The older the boys got, the more
frequently they got whupped again on Sundays. Any time Daddy asked to see
either boy's ass, it began the ritual, and the boy knew he had to beg for the
belt, because he needed it. Punishment is its own reward. Punishment needs no
reason. Punishment for its own sake is what makes a boy a man.
Every time they had busted ass, Jim and Jack disappeared for a couple of hours
into the basement. And after puberty, Hank and Jake, both dicks leaking from
the whuppings they'd just had, disappeared behind the bales of hay on the other
side of the barn.
Sometimes they would fistfight for who would pull the other from the floor onto
his knees to suck dick; both liked fighting as much as they did getting
whupped, as a result of the encouragement from their Daddies as they grew up.
Indeed, the worst thing either could do, the thing which brought the quickest
and most severe beatings, the only thing which could get them the bullwhip, was
losing a fight. The bullwhip was a powerful incentive, Hank being the only man
who could come close to kicking Jake's ass, and Hank still waiting to meet the
man who could kick his. For both there was a powerful relationship between
fists and dicks: when they were horny their fists itched, and when they kicked
ass, it made them randy as buck niggers.
Both, however, would never buck the authority of their Daddies.
As time went on, though, they fought for top less often. Hank had never yet
been on his knees nor tasted dick; even though Jake was a good two hundred
pounds and six feet tall, Hank was four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier.
And there was another reason that Jake always belonged on his knees; Hank's
dick was both thicker and a little more than an inch longer than Jake's eight
inches.
Hank taught Jake to swallow his dick up to the balls, a skill he learned later
all too few queers had, and women -- hell, he found out real fast they couldn't
suck dick worth shit. Hank's Daddy had taught him well; if a boy deserved to
have the living shit beat out of him for losing a fight, where did that leave
Jake, submitting of his own free will there on his knees begging to suck dick
like some sissy?
Hank had grown true to his upbringing; like his Daddy and Uncle Jack, there was
nothing he hated as much as a sissy. Seeing Jake on his knees, a pussy begging
and pleading to be used, was enough to make Hank's big dick pour juice.
And beat ass.
"You faggot," Hank would say as Jake, Hank's cum dribbling down his chin,
begged there on his knees, pleaded for Hank to feed him more, "filthy
dicksucker!" and according to their ritual Jake would be over the horse again,
and Hank would take the razor strop off the nail from which it hung.
And Hank would beat ass until his balls would be denied no longer. He would
slide the grease gun up the hole Jake had given over to him and squeeze the
trigger.
"Pussy!" he would growl as his dick slid deep inside Jake until he was planted
firmly inside, and Jake could feel the huge mandick jerking and throbbing. And
Jake would beg Hank to fuck his pussy, and tell Hank on demand that he WAS a
pussy, Hank's pussy, would never be anything but Hank's pussy.
Jim and Jack knew, of course, that both boys were getting hard-ons when they
got their asses busted. They expected it. Their Daddy, Buck, had raised them
the same way they were raising their own. Their first boners had been while
tied over the horse; their first jack-off fantasies had been about Buck pulling
the old belt from his pants and beating their asses till they were black and
blue. It took them a little longer to figure out that their boys' upbringing
was even more like their own than they had previously realized.
They began to notice subtle changes in the way their boys behaved to them.
Hank, though always respectful, was more assured in some way; Jake, they
noticed, was incapable of looking either of them in the eye. They both
wondered about this, and after talking about it, decided to watch more closely.
Jake was even more submissive toward Hank than he was to them, and this made
their dicks drip. They knew, though they had never seen.
They told the boys that they were getting older, and asked them if they thought
they needed more regular punishment. They watched the boys, and noticed that
although both answered affirmatively, Hank had glanced at Jake, and Jake had
answered first. From now on, the boys begged for whuppings not only on Sunday
mornings, but Wednesday evenings as well.
And on one of those Wednesday evenings, they decided they would watch.
"You pussy!" Hank growled as he shoved his dick forcefully down Jake's hungry
throat. His nuts were churning and he exploded, and Jake swallowed as much as
he could, some dribbling between his lips and down his chin. One cum never
satisfied Hank, and he wanted to beat ass, to make Jake's big, muscular butt
burn more than his own, wanted to see those pretty purple welts raise before he
took his piece of pussy.
He whupped Jake until that beautiful ass looked like hamburger, and shoved the
grease gun up the pussyhole. He yanked the ass wide open with his big, strong
hands and planted himself inside his queer's cunt, and felt the cum building up
in his balls as he made Jake beg for it. And as he rode a shadow fell across
the floor in front of them.
It was Jack, and he slowly skinned his big stiff dick backhanded. Hank began
to fuck again, too possessed by the animal within himself to be embarrassed or
aware of anything but the hot, wet hole around his big cock, and as he slid his
hard dick deep inside the fagpussy, he brought his big hand down hard on the
welts, watching the red handprints stand out against the already black and blue
butt he was using.
Jack didn't say anything. He walked up to the other side of the horse and
grabbed Jake's head, and slid his dick inbetween the hungry queerlips. And
Jake sucked his Daddy's big dick like a starving animal as Hank plowed his
pussyhole with deep, slow strokes.
Hank couldn't hold it back any longer, and tore into the sloppy wet cunt,
pounding the hole deep and hard, and as the hot cum boiled in his heavy balls
and began to spew from his pounding cock, he threw back his head and hollered
like a wild man, foaming saliva running out of his mouth and falling onto
Jake's back. Then as the last of his cum splattered Jake's queer hole, he felt
the big hand grab his shoulder and yank him away from his piece of pussy.
Before Hank had a chance to realize what was going on, his Daddy had forced him
down onto his knees. The big dick jerked in front of his face as Jim peeled
it, and both hands grabbed Hank's head like a vice and he heard his Daddy order
him to lick it clean.
And while Jack held his son's cheeks apart and drove his dick in and out of the
pussyhole, Jim gave his son his first lesson in how to suck dick, a dick as big
as his own.
After that day, Uncle Jack behaved differently toward Hank. Jack was almost
submissive, and that was enough to light Hank's fuse, make him drip thinking
about pushing Jack to his knees and making him suck dick. For Hank, his
upbringing was strong enough that it was only a desire; for Jack, it was a
hunger that he was determined to feed.
One day when Jim was still at work, Jack sent Jake into town. He put his
collar around his neck, the black leather dog collar only Jim had seen him
wear, and went down to the barn where Hank was working.
Hank heard the barn door open and close, and looked up. His dick stood up and
dripped as he saw Jake, buck naked save for the studded collar around his neck,
walk up to him with his eyes downcast and drop to his knees.
Jack begged Hank to let him lick his boots, and Hank finally allowed it,
feeling a queer's tongue through his bootleather for the first time. And Hank
used Jack's holes in addition to Jake's until he and Jake moved away.
There was some fundamental difference between Jack and his son, though, and it
took Hank some time to put his finger on it. When he did, though, it had a
profound effect on his sexuality.
Jack was a dicksucker, but still a man. He could push Jake to his knees and
shove his hard dick down his boy's throat like a man. Jake was not only a
dicksucker, but a pussy. Nothing made Jake's dick soft faster than the idea of
taking a man's role, be it having his dick sucked or fucking ass. And knowing
this pushed Hank to heights of sexual energy he had never known possible.
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